


i don't mind

by LydiaOfNarnia



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Accidental Dog Acquisition, M/M, Snuggling, but not the nice kind of snuggling, the 'this is not who i thought i was snuggling' snuggling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-10-31 23:29:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10909659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydiaOfNarnia/pseuds/LydiaOfNarnia
Summary: Gene has his arms around Babe's chest, his face pressed into his back, and is already half asleep before he realizes that there is no way his boyfriend got this hairy this fast.The person in bed with him is not Babe. Actually, he's pretty sure it's a bear.





	i don't mind

**Author's Note:**

> Of course, the characters in this fic are based off of their fictional portrayals from the miniseries Band of Brothers, and I mean no disrespect to the real-life veterans!
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [renelemaires](http://renelemaires.tumblr.com/)!

When Gene stumbles through the door, he's pretty sure he's only half-awake.

Maybe half is stretching it -- a quarter awake’s more like it, if the way his vision is blurring every few minutes says anything. Any neighbors looking out their windows must think he's drunk, because that's the only other reason anyone would be staggering home at two in the morning. Fourteen hour hospital shifts aren't kind to anyone, but today has been exceptionally brutal. Gene is sure he hasn't sat down since he left the house this morning.

He toes off his shoes as soon as he's in the doorway (one of them always trips over them, so he'll be sure to move them in the morning) and takes just a moment to use the bathroom before he gets in bed. He scrubs at his face and then his hands, rubbing the skin until it is red and sore. The hospital clings to him, even when he is not there -- he can see blood staining latex gloves, creeping beneath to dye his skin red. No amount of scrubbing can banish what is in his mind. Being tired only makes it worse, he knows, and scrubbing his hands raw won't help anyone tonight. Reluctantly, he shuts off the tap and shuffles into the bedroom.

By the time he collapses down on the bed his shirt and pants are already off. In nothing but his underwear, his bare skin yearns for warmth, and he eagerly seeks out the body next to him. Babe is a large lump beneath the blankets, shoulders rising and falling with each breath, so Gene doesn't waste a second wrapping his arms around him.

This is the moment he realizes that something is very wrong.

He doesn't know who’s besides him right now, but he _does_ know Babe. Babe isn't covered with a layer of dark hair so thick and matted that Gene may as well be hugging a rug. Babe doesn't breathe like a rusty radiator, bone-deep pants for breath. He doesn’t smell like he just rolled through a garbage heap (usually -- sometimes he forgets to shower) and he definitely has never sniffed Gene’s hand before. Whatever is in bed next to Gene, it is not Babe.

The hallway light flickers on, casting yellow glow into the bedroom. Gene doesn't move. Instead he simply raises his eyes, very slowly, until they land on the doorway. There is a familiar figure standing there, eyes wide and hair mussed from sleep.

"Heffron," says Gene in a very calm voice, "who the hell is in bed with me?"

"Uhh... that's Buddy."

"Buddy."

"Yeah." Babe's voice is worryingly high-pitched.

"Can I ask what Buddy is doin’ in bed with me right now? Or why he's in this house at all?"

"Well..." The floor creaks as Babe takes a step forward -- or backwards, if he's smart. Buddy's gigantic body heaves as he lets out a huff, and Gene feels something furry against his bare thigh. He really hopes it's a leg and not a tail.

 _"Babe,"_ he says in a warning tone. "Please at least tell me this is a dog and not a goddamn bear."

"It's not a bear," Babe says immediately, but the way he cuts off abruptly has Gene worried. "I mean, I'm pretty sure."

“Pretty sure.”

“He makes dog noises, sorta.” Babe is doing that thing where he talks about details instead of addressing the immediate problem -- the elephant, or in this case, potential bear in the room. “And he really likes hamburger meat. And he's got these big brown eyes, ah god Gene, you should _see_ ‘em --”

“I'm seein’ a lot, and I don't like any of it,” Gene says, and Babe falls into defeated silence. As carefully as possible, Gene begins to ease himself away from Buddy. His arm retracts from around the furry torso; he slips out from under the covers; and as soon as there's enough distance between them he jumps out of bed, reeling back until he stumbles into the closet behind him. A pair of Babe’s discarded sneakers nearly sends him to the ground, but he catches himself. Nonetheless, Buddy the bear-dog has taken enough of an interest to sit up in bed and regard Gene with wide, excited eyes.

Babe wasn't lying -- he _does_ have dark eyes, along with dark everything else. The animal is a mess of matted black fur; his ears flop on both sides of his head, like twin bees nest. He's the color of mud after a summer storm; and when he lifts his head, Gene is alarmed to realize their starched pillows are now stained the same way.

“He's filthy,” Gene says weakly. A layer of grime now coats his chest. He needs a shower. He’ll need to _burn the sheets_. “Babe, you let a filthy dog in our bed?”

“He was tired!”

“I'm tired too! Buddy don't need a bed, he needs a bath! Or a groomer, because that dog is eighty percent fur right now and for some reason it's all in our bed. Our _bed_ , Babe.”

Maybe he's taken aback by Gene’s uncharacteristic burst of temper, or maybe he's just using his brain, but Babe wisely says nothing more.

Instead he leads Gene into the kitchen, leaving Buddy to his own devices. Babe quickly throws together a cup of tea for his boyfriend, and then starts a pot of coffee (after Gene tells him, “Heffron, if you don't get me somethin’ stronger I'm gonna go into a coma, and then _Buddy_ can try kissin’ me awake.”).

“Explain,” says Gene, as soon as he has enough caffeine in him to be aware of most of the world around him. Across the table, Babe shrinks in his seat.

Really, Gene doesn’t know why he’s surprised. Stray dogs aren’t everywhere in Philly, but it’s a city with a lot of weird stuff, and if there’s weird stuff to be found then Babe is very good at finding it. It helps that animals seem to be naturally drawn to him, and he’s a dog person to begin with. Gene has seen the way Babe pouts at those lost dog posters in the post office; he doesn’t know why he’s shocked that his boyfriend picked up a stray for himself.

Maybe that isn’t what’s surprising him, but the fact that Babe let it into the house. Buddy the dog is a ball of matted filth, and his second stop should have been to the groomers before coming home with them.

“First stop should be the vet’s,” says Gene, between chugging coffee like a lifeline. “You don’t know what kinda stuff that dog could have. I’ll bet anything he hasn’t had his shots yet.”

Babe nods, recognizing the logic in this. He doesn’t look half as dejected as he did at the beginning of this conversation, though, and Gene doesn’t have to be wide awake to know why.

“The dog is as big as you,” he says, and Babe nods like this is the greatest thing in the world. It probably is, to him -- he still talks about the giant dog he used to have as a kid, which apparently was twice the size of Babe’s little sister and used to give the kids rides around the backyard like a pony. Babe likes dogs, but he loves big dogs.

Gene loves Babe, and he thinks he could learn to like big dogs.

“Now, I’m gonna go take a shower,” he says, “and then I’m gonna pass out on the couch. First thing in the morning, you and I are takin’ that dog to the vet’s, and then to the groomers. Then, you’re the one who’s gonna clean the bed up, cuz you’re the one who let him in there in the first place. While you do that, I’ll go to the pet store and pick up some food…”

Babe is grinning bright enough to light up the whole room, and Gene doesn’t get to finish before his boyfriend has lunged across the kitchen table and kissed him square on the mouth. It’s not really romantic -- Gene is covered in grime and tastes like coffee, while the edge of the table is digging into Babe’s stomach -- but at three in the morning, with loud snores echoing from their bedroom and both of them bone-tired, it’s perfect.

“You’re the best,” Babe says when he pulls away, still grinning. “I love you, you know that, right?”

“You’d better keep that dog out of our bed from now on,” is all Gene says, and he leaves Babe in the kitchen with a sunshine grin and an empty coffee mug pressed into his hands.


End file.
